Riverside
by skullgirllove
Summary: Javert and Valjean's relationship throughout the years and how their lives are connected to a river. Possible slash. R&R!


_Down by the river by the boats _

_Where everybody goes to be alone _

_Where you wont see any rising sun _

_Down to the river we will run_

The sun hung perilously low overhead, not yet ready to set but lazily starting to edge towards the horizon. A tan hand rose up to shield coal black eyes from the light. The owner of these eyes seemed alarmed at the reddening sky and started walking quicker than before. He still had a ways to go before he reached the outskirts of the city and it was in his best interests to get there before nightfall.

The traveler was a young boy of maybe seven or eight though his eyes seemed older than the rest of him somehow. Taking that into account he could have passed for a small nine year old. The boy didn't know his exact age but he thought that eight seemed about right.

He was a small boy to begin with but he seemed all the smaller since his clothes were at least a size too big for him and well worn in many places. Under his arm he carried a loaf of bread that seemed too large for him to carry easily.

The boy's brow furrowed as he shifted the bread to a more comfortable position. That had been his purpose in the city to begin with. He had gone in feeling optimistic. As he had been instructed he had gone into the bakery, asked for bread and put the few sous his mother had given him on the counter. The baker blinked in surprise and a hint of distaste at the grimy child who stood before him, messy black locks falling in his eyes. Collecting the money he handed over a single loaf of dark bread. The dark eyes stared at him dubiously. The little boy had no concrete understanding of the value of money but he had gone shopping with his mother many times before and he was fairly certain that he should have received two loaves of bread for the amount of money he had handed over.

"What are you looking at?" The baker said. He did not like how those dark eyes were staring at him, it made him feel like a bug under a microscope.

"Go on, get out." The boy didn't move face fixed in a frown.

"Get out now!" The man demanded, spittle flying from his mouth and catching on his thick mustache. "Before I call the police on you." Grudgingly the boy grabbed his single loaf and hurried out the door.

"Gypsy brat." The baker muttered, dropping the boy's money into his purse.

He was meant to have gotten two, the boy thought angrily. He was sure of it. Now mother would be mad. It would be no use explaining that he had to go before the man sent for the police. Then he would have had to run away, hopefully hiding where the officers with their shiny boots and heavy clubs couldn't find him. He had been born in a jail and had no desire to ever go back. But the officers wouldn't let him go so easily, they would have the whole force out looking for him, there would be posters of his face all over the city. He would have to flee the country, to England maybe or Spain. Mother would have been heart broken.

"Oh _mon enfant_," she would moan. "Just like your, father in trouble with the law. My little boy, a wanted criminal at eight."

So in retrospect, the boy mused, it was really just better to just take the one loaf. It beat running off the England anyways. Somehow he doubted mother would see that way. He winced at the thought of mother's wide leather belt with metal stubs in it.

This presented a problem. If he somehow managed to get home before sundown he'd be in trouble for being cheated out of their food. If he didn't make it he'd be punished for being late as well. Though he knew he'd pay for it later the boy decided to put of facing his mother's wrath and stopped to sit by the side of the river.

He had never liked water. There were wriggly things in the water that could grab your leg and pull you down. One of the older boys at his came had told him about river monsters that lurked where the water grew dark, big green things with fins and big, sharp, teeth. Unfortunately for him, it was on that same day that the boy's father, out of jail for once, decided to teach him to swim. Half an hour later the boy was hiding up a tree and his father was sitting soaking wet in the river.

"Have it your way then!" The older man had bellowed, stomping off towards the camp. "You want to drown, go ahead, see if I care." The boy doubted that would happen since he usually stayed as far from the water as possible. Even now he glanced warily at the river as though he expected it to reach out and pull him in. At that moment an idea struck him. His mother made a living reading fortunes in a crystal ball. She could see peoples past, present and even the future. The boy figured water would work the same way and maybe he could look into his own future to see whether he got a beating or not for instance.

Edging a bit closer he peeked into the water. At first all he saw was his own dark and somewhat dirty face and the reflection of a bridge behind him. As he looked a bit closer he thought he saw a man walking across the bridge clad in a top hat and long, dark coat. He couldn't see his face but his shoulders were slumped and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets. He was sad about something, the boy thought. As he watched the man climbed over the edge of the bridge and looked down into the water below. The boy craned his neck and leaned forward, trying to get a look at the man's face. Seconds later he felt himself begin to wobble and before he could catch himself he lost his balance completely and with a yelp of surprise plummeted into the water below.

It was lucky for him that the water was unusually shallow that day due to a lack of rainfall in the past few months. A few seconds after he fell he sat up spluttering and wiping the water from his eyes. His vision cleared just in time to see the bread, now quite, soggy vanish under the bridge.

Well that was just great. Not only was the bread gone but his clothes were soaked, and probably ruined. They were the only ones he had too. Mother was going to murder him.

As he sat there miserable and wet he heard a loud guffaw of laughter issuing from his right. The boy angrily turned to face his tormenter. The culprit was a boy who looked about sixteen with sandy blonde hair. Upon seeing the murderous expression on the small boys face he burst into a fresh bout of laughter. With his inky hair matted to his wet face with water he looked very much like a disgruntled kitten that had been tossed in the river. The little boy was not amused.

"Stop that!" he demanded, attempting to stand but falling on the wet stones and falling back down again. The older boy made an effort to control his laughter.

"I'm sorry." He said quickly. "I shouldn't have laughed. Here." He extended a calloused hand to the child. The boy pointedly ignored the offered assistance and attempted once more to get up on his own. About five minuets later he realized that this was not going to work and reluctantly allowed the boy to pull him onto the bank. There he stood, shivering in his wet clothes and trying desperately to think of an excuse to tell his mother.

"Are you alright?" the older boy asked, still smiling at his drenched companion. The younger boy only glared at him.

"What were you doing so near the water anyways?" Again no answer.

"Look I know you can talk." The boy teased. "I really am sorry for laughing. The gypsy boy pouted in what he hoped was a disbelieving way.

"I'm Jean by the way." The boy tried again. "Will you at lest tell me your name?"

"Auguste." The boy muttered grumpily, attempting to push his wet hair from his eyes.

"Well Auguste what's got you in such a sour mood?" The boy stared at him indignantly.

"I almost drowned!"

"Please, that water's barely two feet deep. Can't you swim?" Auguste shook his head.

"Big boy like you? How old are you anyways? Six? Seven?"

"I'm eight." The younger boy said, drawing himself up to his full, if somewhat unimpressive, height. Jean snorted.

"I am!"

"You're too small to be eight." The little boy's face turned red with anger.

"I'm growing!" he snapped. "You wait, I'm going to be really tall, taller than you. I'll be…" he hesitated, trying to think of the biggest number he knew, "50 feet tall!"

"Well that wouldn't be very fun." Auguste frowned.

"Why not?"

"Because fifty feet is taller than a house. You wouldn't be able to go anywhere without people string and yelling things at you." The younger boy paused. He hadn't thought of that.

"How about this tall?" The older boy gestured at his shoulder.

"No!" The little boy said firmly. "Taller than you." Jean made another gesture, this one about three inches above his head. Auguste nodded in approval.

"That's alright. 'Long as I'm bigger than you." Once again Jean started laughing, this time at the absurdity of the conversation. After a bit Auguste began to see the humor in the situation and even managed a rare smile. All at once he remembered the terrible predicament he was in and promptly burst into tears. The light haired boy blinked in alarm at his companion's sudden change of mood but decided he should probably try and comfort the boy…whatever it was he needed comforting for.

"Hey none of that." He said, awkwardly patting the young boy's shoulder.

August had, if possible, grown more miserable than before. He had always been told that only girls cried and certainly not big boys of eight who were practically men. He had no difficulty sticking to this unspoken rule. Even as a baby he hadn't cried very much. It bordered on being unnatural.

"What an odd child." People would say. "Far too quiet for his age and so serious." But even a child so quiet and serious was still a child. And the current situation was just too much for a child to bear.

Still sniffling Auguste managed to recount his tale concluding with the fact that it was nearly sundown now, he was dripping wet and had no bread. He was thankful that the older boy didn't laugh or say that a boy of eight had no business crying over a loaf of bread. He merely paused a moment, deep in thought.

"This baker," he asked at last. "Big man with a mustache?" Auguste nodded. "Thought so. He's done that to loads of us. Regular cheat."

"Well what am I going to do?"

"Just come with me," Jean said, heading off back towards the city. "I'll think of something don't worry." Not ten minuets later they ran into a policeman passed out drunk on the sidewalk. Although he clearly presented no threat Auguste still ran and hid behind Jean's leg, shivering in terror.

"Calm down its just Lait." The older boy said, gesturing at the cop. "He's harmless. Spends most of his time either drinking or sleeping it off." All of a sudden Jean's eyes lit up and a slow smile passed over his face. Auguste looked up nervously at his companion the knowing look in his eyes.

"Jean," he asked, tugging at the older boy's pant leg. "What are you planning? Jean?"


End file.
